Reasons
by Rosie26
Summary: What reasons could there be for Denethor's rejection of his youngest son. Resentment, jealousy, and secrets the Steward doesn't want known. Individual stories.
1. Sins of the Father 1

This is my first attempt after being a lurker for some while. I'm really nervous, but would welcome any constructive criticism. I hope Denethor fans will forgive me - I have tried to portray him as a man with human failings, unable to cope with grief and guilt. I also wanted to put a new slant to the relationship, or lack of, between he and Faramir.  
  
I don't own the characters – they just own me. I have, however, borrowed them for a while.  
  
THE SIN OF THE FATHER.  
  
He didn't know what made him go to his son's bedchamber. Although the boy was ill, it hadn't really been a conscious decision, and he hesitated before pushing open the door.  
  
He was sleeping, his face pale and his breathing shallow. The healers had said he was over the worst, but he looked fragile, and so very young. Familiar feelings of resentment surfaced as Denethor compared him to his elder, stronger son – a proud warrior of Gondor, not a lover of elves and wizards. The gentle Faramir was his mother's son, Denethor though ruefully, as memories of Finduilas came unbidden, and at that time, unwelcome, for he could hear her voice in his head, reminding him how much he had desired a second heir. He turned to leave, but for some reason, felt compelled to remain, almost mesmerized by the sleeping form of his youngest son.  
  
How ironic that his wife had loved this child – the child he had wanted more than she, for Finduilas was in despair, and fearful of the world in which they lived, having no desire to bring another child into it. It was apparent from an early age that Faramir was different to his brother, who was Denethor's pride and joy. Finduilas said that together they would be a formidable team, with Boromir's military and tactical awareness, and Faramir's quick and logical mind – but Faramir was also of a gentle and sensitive nature, which Denethor perceived as weakness.  
  
"You use it as an excuse!"  
  
He put his hands to his ears, as though to shut out the words of Finduilas, but he knew they were coming from within – and he knew they were true.  
  
He looked at Faramir, and the past 20 years raced through his mind – twenty years in which he had deprived his son of the attention and love he lavished so freely on his eldest. Where he gave Boromir praise, he gave only criticism to Faramir. Where Boromir was encouraged, Faramir was ridiculed by the implication of inadequacy.  
  
"He is innocent!" Finduilas' words seemed so loud he thought Faramir would waken, and he did indeed stir, but his eyes remained closed. "INNOCENT!" The word echoed back and forth in his mind as though trying to reach his conscience.  
  
It was almost an involuntary movement, but Denethor reached out and stroked the soft damp waves of hair away from his son's face. It was a strange sensation – he rarely touched Faramir, for it reminded him too much of Finduilas – and of that night.  
  
He had been cajoling and coaxing her for months to give him another heir. He had asked her to do so for him, for Gondor, even for Boromir, but her mood was low, and his pressure just hardened her resolve. He loved her so much, his beautiful ethereal wife, but that night he lost all reason, and all sense of decency and honour. He knew that this was the time she would normally reject him – the time when a child was most likely to be conceived, but he would no longer be denied.  
  
Afterwards, she had wept uncontrollably, and would not countenance his pleas for forgiveness, although his remorse and his shame were real.  
  
Things were never the same for them after that night, and a difficult pregnancy and birth only served to compound his guilt. When he looked at his tiny newborn son, he felt no joy, for here was a constant reminder of his unforgiveable actions. Her mood and her body grew steadily weaker, and when Finduilas died five years later, Denethor found the guilt impossible to bear, and as he looked now upon his sick and vulnerable youngest, he knew in his heart that he had unjustly transferred to Faramir the blame for his own sin.  
  
Suddenly, Faramir was awake, looking at his father with a mixture of confusion, hope, and to Denethor's shame, fear. For a brief moment, the Steward recognised the longing in the soulful, expressive blue-grey eyes for what it was, and his heart ached with a burst of love for this boy, the son he had longed for – but almost immediately, Faramir's eyes became those of Finduilas, and Denethor remembered the way she had looked at him when it was over – the desolation, the shock, and the total disbelief.  
  
Denethor withdrew his hand from Faramir's brow and looked briefly at his son before leaving abruptly and without word, and he did not witness the tears that fell, as Faramir, not for the first time, or the last, cried alone. 


	2. Sins of the Father 2

Someone suggested that I should do a second chapter for Sins of the Father. Well, this isn't really a second chapter as such, but an extension of the idea as to why Denethor rejects Faramir. Basically, this is just another possibility.  
  
Sins of the Father – 2.  
  
Boromir had witnessed his father's anger on many occasions, but this was something more. The stewards's face was distorted into a mask of malevolent rage, and also – though it distressed him to believe it – sheer hatred. The object of Denethor's anger was, as usual, his youngest son. Faramir had just returned to Minas Tirith with the news that orcs had taken control of Par Bellas, a hill on the outskirts of Ithilien, which had been a crucial vantage point for the Rangers.  
  
Boromir's fist clenched in frustration. His brother was a fine soldier and a good leader – all the more so because he'd had to work at it, for it didn't come naturally to him. He would have preferred to spend his days with his nose in a book, learning about the various races of Middle Earth, of their culture, their languages, and their history. He was a quiet and peaceful soul, but he recognised that the time in which they lived allowed little opportunity for self-indulgence.  
  
Faramir's head ached. He hadn't slept for two days, and his body bore swollen purple and blue contusions, the legacy of the long battle with the hordes of Mordor orcs who launched their attack on the Ithilien outpost with numbers that vastly outweighed those of the Rangers. He could still hear his father's voice, but he no longer knew what he was saying. His mind was fixed on the men he had lost and their families who were still waiting for news. He'd heard it all before anyway, more times than he cared to remember. Usually he would listen and take notice of Denethor's rantings with the respect due to the Steward of Gondor, but today he was just too weary. He drew a deep breath which unfortunately, Denethor interpreted as a sign of petulance, and as the Steward lost control, the battle-weary Ranger found himself on the floor, the back of his father's hand striking him across the face with such force that for a moment, Faramir thought his neck had snapped.  
  
"Father!" Boromir ran to his brother's side. Faramir was dazed, and yet at the same time, the blow brought him back to full awareness. Boromir tried to help him to his feet, but Faramir shrugged him angrily aside, and he faced his father, his eyes blazing with defiance. Denethor looked momentarily startled by the rapid change in his normally placid son – he hadn't intended to strike him, but he would have expected the reaction to be one of contrition. Faramir was rarely insubordinate, and more often than not, over-anxious to please, Denethor reflected. He had a stubborn streak and occasionally a flash of temper, but his son was not a man given to bursts of anger – unlike himself he realised with some sense of shame.  
  
Faramir was standing before him now, his large blue-grey eyes clear and penetrating, his expression not one of despair, but of determination. Denethor found it unsettling.  
  
"Leave", he said. "I no longer require your presence".  
  
Faramir bowed slightly. "As you wish Father", he said, "But you and I will talk, and soon – for no longer will I waste my time wondering about answers to questions I have been loathe to ask".  
  
He turned and walked away, his head held high, and with no visible sign of either shock or anger.  
  
Boromir was proud of him.  
  
"You expect too much of him", he said to his father. "He does his duty well, but miracles he hasn't mastered yet".  
  
Denethor just scowled. Another time he would have taken issue with his eldest, but Faramir's words had troubled him. More than troubled. In truth he was shaken, for he knew that Faramir was going to confront him and would demand answers that the Steward would prefer not to give.  
  
*********************  
  
He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling as though in a trance, eyes unblinking. Boromir sat beside him. He placed his hand gently against his brother's bruised cheek, and thought to himself that not all the Orcs of Mordor could hurt him more.  
  
"What did you mean? What questions?"  
  
Faramir's face remained impassive, his gaze still focused on the high, ornate ceiling.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"He drives you hard because he cares – he wants you to remain safe", but Boromir knew that his response was lame.  
  
Faramir looked at him.  
  
"Who do you try to protect brother – me or him? All my life I have been treated as second best – where you received words of encouragement or praise, I received silence. Your failures met with consolation, ,mine with accusation. He will tell me why, or........". His voice faltered.  
  
"Or?" prompted Boromir.  
  
"Or I will leave Minas Tirith", said Faramir.  
  
Boromir's look was of disbelief. "You could never do that! You are nothing if not loyal to Gondor".  
  
"I said not that I would leave Gondor", his brother replied. "I can serve Gondor with the Rangers in the north, or I can go to Dol Amroth – or, yes, maybe I will indeed seize the chance to see the Misty Mountains, or Mirkwood, seek Imladris, or even further".  
  
"Roaming alone through the wild? said Boromir. "Not advisable for any man, least of all the son of the Steward of Gondor".  
  
"Well, mayhap that will not be a concern." Faramir said quietly, but Boromir was too busy contemplating the prospect of life without his beloved little brother to question the meaning of his words.  
  
*******************  
  
Denethor didn't want to reflect on the past. Damn Faramir! The future was all that mattered – the future of Gondor. He always tried not to think of Finduilas, for her loss still pained him grievously. He had loved her like no other, but he knew that as a husband, he was a failure. He was not a man capable of the sensitivies a woman expected and needed, and it was no surprise to him that his wife had left him and returned to her home in Dol Amroth, leaving him alone in his walled city – his only true love being the accusation she had thrown at him. He hadn't known when, or if, she would return, and he missed her, and their four year old son, but at first his main feeling was one of anger and resentment. She was his wife and her place was at his side. She had no right to place her own desires before his. She knew what to expect when she married him – his duty was first and foremost to Gondor, no matter how much she, or he, would wish it to be different. Maybe she should have remained in Dol Amroth and married a man whose responsibilities were less and did not control his every waking moment.  
  
Denethor closed his eyes as he remembered Finduilas – her body, her face, her sweet ethereal quality. There was no other like her – no other – but the memory of Rowanna pervaded his mind. Finduilas' maid was beautiful, but to Denethor her beauty lay in her likness to his absent wife. They could have been sisters, and Finduilas thought of her as such, despite the differences in their class. Rowanna even had the same elven blood in her veins, the blood that Denethor blamed for his wife's feyness and fragility. Why had the fates conspired to leave her in Minas Tirith, victim of a fever which prevented her from travelling with his wife? The nights he took Rowanna had weighed heavily in his thoughts, even though at the time, he had thought only of Finduilas, imagining that it was her body beneath him, but he was an honourable man, and was consumed by guilt.  
  
And now Faramir would come, demanding answers, wanting to know why his presence had always provoked such animosity, why he felt unloved and unwanted, for though it had never been said, Denethor knew that was what he believed – and with good reason the Steward recognised, for he knew that it had always been Faramir on whom he vented his frustrations, his guilt, and his anger.  
  
Denethor remembered his birth as though it was yesterday – a pathetic little scrap of humanity who Finduilas had adored from the moment she set eyes on him. He was small and helpless but even then had huge blue eyes which seemed to bore into Denethor's very soul. And so it continued through his childhood, and beyond. Many times did the Steward sense a presence, and he would find Faramir watching him, and although no words would pass between them, Denethor remained haunted by the blue eyes that spoke volumes. When it became apparent that the child was gifted with foresight, Denethor's conscience told him that he knew the truth.  
  
"Come!" he responded to the knock on the door, and Faramir entered. The young Ranger felt a lot less confident than he had previously, but he faced Denethor with his head high, and a determined expression.  
  
The bruise on Faramir's face was now a mass of purple and black, and as the Steward looked at it, confused emotions raged within him. Part of him wanted to strike his son again, to beat the defiance out of him, but he knew that such brutality would achieve nothing, less it were to lose him both of his children, for Boromir had ever been the friend and protector of his young brother. It was yet another source of enmity, for Denethor knew that Boromir loved Faramir above all others.  
  
"We need to talk, you and I", said Faramir.  
  
"Indeed", agreed Denethor, "and not least of all about the situation at Par Bellas, which must be retaken".  
  
Faramir nodded. "And it shall be – but tell me Father, had Boromir been in command, would your reaction have been the same? My brother is a great soldier, but even he could not have held back an enemy that outnumbered us fourfold. Had we stayed to fight, we would have been slaughtered, and Gondor would have been even further weakened".  
  
Denethor was silent for a moment. He had no desire to inflame this situation, and in his heart, he knew Faramir spoke the truth.  
  
"Boromir tells me I expect too much of you", he said at last. "Do you agree with him?"  
  
"My Lord is at liberty to expect the best I can offer", Faramir replied.  
  
"Then maybe I do you an injustice", said the Steward. "Maybe my belief that your head is too full of lore and music to fulfil your duties in the defence of this realm to the best of your ability, is unfounded.  
  
"Is that then your reasons Father?" Denethor's gaze was drawn to the eyes that had tormented him for 25 years – the eyes of a child, the eyes of a youth, the eyes of a man, but worst of all, the eyes of his mother. He said nothing as Faramir continued.  
  
"You know I do not care for war and battle. I take no pleasure in slaying, whether it be human or orc. I care not for life as a soldier. But should I have a son who wishes to follow that path, I would still love and support him, for he would still be my son, and I would not allow differences in our character to come between us".  
  
Denethor nodded. He had to be careful, for despite his natural inclination to criticise and deride his youngest, he wanted this conversation to be as short as possible, and a tactical withdrawal would be preferable to a major conflict, where there would be no victor.  
  
"I accept what you say", he said. "In future, I will remember it".  
  
Faramir's look was of shock, but not because his father had appeared to capitulate. The young man was too astute not to realise that Denethor was deliberately avoiding the issue.  
  
He closed his eyes momentarily, and took a deep breath.  
  
"And what then, were your reasons when I was a child?"  
  
Denethor waved him away. "This is not the time – there are more pressing matters to be dealt with."  
  
"This is the time for me!" Faramir's heart was pounding, and his throat felt dry and constricted, but he was not going to lose the momentum and back down now.  
  
"I love my brother", he continued, "but for as long as I can remember, it has been he who has received your approval and your affection. As a small child I can remember seeing you laugh with him, hold him, share stories with him..."  
  
His voice faltered. "Please no", he thought, "Don't let me weaken now", and he steeled himself as he continued. "What did I do as a child that made you deny me any love?"  
  
Denethor looked at Faramir, and the expression on his face was almost fit to break his heart. Tears were spilling silently from those same eyes that had accused him so often, but such was his guilt and fear, that he was unable to offer any comfort, for he knew not what to say.  
  
"I have to ask you something, and I beg you to forgive me", said Faramir, who despite his emotions, was not going to retreat now. "And I ask my mother's forgiveness also", he added.softly, and he looked squarely at Denethor, as he asked, "Are you my father?"  
  
So many thoughts raced through Denethor's mind – there was anger that Faramir should consider his mother's infidelity, but there was compassion also, for he could not treat lightly the boy's distress, and nor could he deny that he himself was the cause of it.  
  
Faramir's head was lowered, but as Denethor moved towards him, he looked up, and the Steward noticed him flinch. "Has it come to this?" he asked himself sadly.  
  
He placed his hand gently beneath Faramir's chin. "Look at me", he said firmly. His tone was gentle, but Faramir kept his head down, for he felt shame at letting his father see him weep like a child.  
  
"Faramir", said Denethor, as with his thumb he wiped tears away from his son's face. This caring, but unexpected gesture, was too much for Faramir, and his shoulders convulsed as he gave way to sobs that tore at Denethor's heart.  
  
"Listen to me", he said. "I make no excuses for the way in which I have treated you, for there are none – but I will tell you no lie."  
  
Faramir looked up then, red-rimmed eyes full of fearful anticipation.  
  
"You are my son", Denethor continued, "Though I know not if that will comfort you".  
  
Faramir's relief was plain, and as he knelt in front of his father, he took his hand and kissed the ring upon it, and the Steward could not help but wonder why he deserved this demonstration of loyalty and affection. He stroked his son's hair. "Go now", he said, "Go and rest, for there is much to be done, and you will need your wits about you. I would not wish to lose you in battle."  
  
When Faramir had left the room, Denethor virtually collapsed into his chair. It was done, and the secret remained. He had not been the best father to Faramir, and even now, he didn't know if he could change, but he knew he loved him, for had he not, he would have unburdened himself, and broke the boy's heart in the process.  
  
Although Faramir had not wanted to hear that Denethor was not his father, he was probably prepared for it, but Denethor knew that the gentle and sensitive young man who had knelt before him in gratitude at being confirmed as the son of the Steward, would have been unable to cope with the truth. Indeed, it was something Denethor would take to his grave.  
  
When Finduilas was in Dol Amroth, Denethor had been plagued with jealousy and suspicion. He knew the accursed Thorongil was there also and that he and his wife shared the kind of friendship and companionship that Denethor was unable to offer.. Soon he was convinced that Finduilas had betrayed him, and so it was that he justified taking a mistress in Rowanna.  
  
"I can at least do this much for him," thought Denethor. "I will protect him from the truth" and he vowed then that Faramir would never learn that his mother had died in childbirth, and that her motherless infant had been immediately adopted by the beautiful and forgiving Finduilas. 


	3. The Wizard's Pupil

** Usual disclaimers apply. **

**_Further exploration into the reasons behind the poor relationship between Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and his youngest son. _**

**REASONS - Chapter 3: The Wizard's Pupil.**

"Mithrandir!"  
  
The joy in the child's voice was unmistakeable. Gandalf laughed as he swept him up in his arms, as he remembered the first time they met.  
  
"Faramir, this is Mithrandir," said Denethor.  
  
"Mithand......." The five year old attempted, his face registering a concentration that evoked an immediate burst of affection in the wizard. He winked at the little boy.  
  
"You may call me Gandalf if it's easier" he said.  
  
"Don't pander to him Mithrandir." Denethor's voice was sharp, and took Gandalf by surprise, but then, he reasoned, the Steward had only recently lost his dear wife, and being left to raise two young sons was not going to be easy.  
  
Gandalf looked at the child, Finduilas' youngest. He had a mass of chestnut coloured hair, and long dark lashes fringed the sapphire blue eyes that seemed way too large for his small face. His body was slight, with no sign of childhood fat, and he had an air of fragility that reminded the wizard of the lovely woman who had been prematurely robbed of life.  
  
As the Steward and the wizard walked, Faramir's small legs ran to keep up, and suddenly Gandalf felt a little hand slip into his. His first reaction was one of amused pleasure, and it wasn't until later that he wondered if was merely an affectionate nature, or something else that would make a newly bereaved child seek a comforting touch from a total stranger.

  
  
In seven years, Faramir had changed comparatively little. His hair was lighter, and he was bigger of course, though still slight – and probably underweight, thought Gandalf, as he considered that although his visits to Minas Tirith were relatively few, Faramir's growth was not as noticeable as he would have expected, although he looked healthy enough.  
  
"I've missed you," said the 12 year old, and as he hugged Gandalf tightly, the wizard realised that the feeling was mutual. In the years that had passed, it became apparent that Faramir was a remarkable child. He was quick to learn, and showed an interest in history and lore, art and music. Though living in an age when wars frequently raged around him, he showed little desire to be a soldier, even though he knew that would be his destiny.  
  
Ever since he had met him, Gandalf had worried about Faramir. His only real outlet for affection was his brother Boromir, for his father was a man hardened by grief, who had no idea how to deal with a boy like his youngest son. It was his own upbringing, the wizard decided. Denether had been like Faramir – scholarly and interested in the world around him, but his father Ecthelion derided him for it, comparing him unfavourably on more than one occasion to men like Thorongil, heroes to the people of Gondor for their exploits in battle. Denethor hated Thorongil with a passion, for he unwittingly made him feel inferior, and indeed, Ecthelion did nothing to alleviate that belief. Denethor had been a child not unlike Faramir – quiet, studious, blessed with the gift of foresight, but Ecthelion's reaction to these qualities had seemingly convinced Denethor that they were undesirable.

  
  
"Hello Mithrandir" came a voice behind him, as he stood overlooking the Pelennor before nightfall.  
  
"Boromir – I didn't hear you. Either my ears are failing, or you have mastered the silent approach to perfection."  
  
"I wish," said Boromir, "but I feel it was more to do with your concentration. You seem a world away Mithrandir."  
  
"Yes," mused Gandalf, "I suppose I was."  
  
He studied the young man closely. How alike he and Faramir were, and yet how unlike. The elder son of the steward bore an air of confidence that had probably been instilled in him since birth.  
  
"I was thinking about your brother," he said finally. "Is he well?"  
  
Boromir sighed. "You notice it also," he said. "I wondered if it was my imagination – I fuss over him like an old woman," and he added quietly, "Someone must".  
  
"Tell me Boromir," said Gandalf, "Tell me all. You can trust me."  
  
At first, Boromir was hesitant, but once he started to speak, it was as though a load was being lifted from his shoulders, and he told Gandalf that Denethor rarely spoke to Faramir, less it were to scold or criticise. "He tries so hard," Boromir said, "But our father shows no interest in him."  
  
"Do you know why that should be?" asked the wizard.  
  
Boromir shrugged his shoulders. "Father doesn't like it that Faramir reads all the time. He doesn't think he has the mind to be soldier. Once he made him go to a seamstress to learn tapestry – he said if he behaved as a female, he may as well be treated like one.  
  
And he was really angry once, when Faramir refused to shoot a hawk out of the sky. I shot one, and Father asked Faramir to try. He thought about it, then just said he didn't want to. I thought it was because he was afraid he might miss, so I told him not to worry about it, and that it wouldn't matter.....he did take the bow, and levelled it as though he was going to shoot, but then he stopped, and refused to do it. When Father asked him why, he just said that the hawk didn't deserve to die. Father was furious – he said that such respect for life would dictate his attitude in battle and could cost lives.  
  
Faramir has his own strengths Mithrandir- he tries to please, but not at the expense of his own heart and soul, and so he gets into more trouble."  
  
Boromir looked at the wizard, and his concern for his young brother was all too apparent.  
  
"He's stubborn," the young man continued, "Which gives him courage of sorts, but our father doesn't like that. He thinks Faramir is just wilful and sullen – but he isn't. He's just not a soldier. He's too gentle at heart, and Father says a man can't afford to be like that these days."  
  
Boromir gave a heavy sigh. "I worry what will happen to him when I'm away." Then, seeing the look on Gandalf's face, he quickly added, "I don't mean that Father will harm him – but he'll have no-one."  
  
Gandalf's voice was measured and resolute as he replied, "He'll have me – as often as is possible."  
  
And so it was that Gandalf the Grey became friend, protector and tutor, to Faramir of Gondor, and though his visits were not as frequent as he would have liked, he made a difference to the quiet and studious younger son of the Steward.  
  
For two years it worked well, and everyone was content. Denethor, though still suspicious of the wizard, appreciated the transformation, albeit not complete, in his son, for through Gandalf, Faramir learned to recognize the importance of strategic warfare and self-defence, and also the need, unwelcome as it was, to be able to strike first in order to gain a military advantage. The eager student was quick to grasp the guile and expertise, that the wizard had achieved throughout his long years, and Gandalf also inspired Faramir to take more seriously his lessons in swordsmanship, and in archery at which he excelled.  
  
But Faramir was primarily a scholar, and he had a thirst for knowledge that even Gandalf found difficult to quench. He forgot nothing that he learned, and at 14 years of age he was fluent in Sindarin, well on the way to mastering Quenya, and well-versed in both Gondorian and Elvish history, but the fragile truce with his father was all but shattered when, in front of dignitaries from Rohan, Faramir corrected the Steward who had mentioned the wrong date in reference to a battle.  
  
Of course, the dignitaries, were extremely amused, but Denethor felt insulted and humiliated, and demanded that Faramir attend his study the following day.

Faramir gazed around at the stark walls in his father's study – Denethor was not a man for pomp or regalia, but the room was more welcoming than the man who frequented it. The steward eyed his son with an equal mixture of irritation and fascination, and he signed inwardly in frustration. What use would this scrawny little dreamer be to Gondor when it came to battle. He doubted that orcs or Haradrim would be as unsettled as he by the intense blue eyes that were now focused on him.  
  
"Faramir," he said. "Never again will you dare to correct me in front of anyone – whether servant or dignitary. Do you understand?"  
  
Faramir nodded, his face expressionless, as Denethor continued. "I think you devote too much time to books and other activities which are likely to be of little use to you in the future."  
  
Faramir opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.  
  
"You are adequate with a bow I believe, but I'm told your swordplay needs a lot of work," said the Steward, "And I think you should devote more time to these pursuits. You may use the library in your spare time, but there will be no more lessons with Mithrandir. I believe him to be a poor influence."  
  
Faramir's heart sank. He'd expected physical punishment, which would have been preferable to this, but his father knew better ways in which to hurt him. A lump formed in his throat, and the threat of tears made him lower his head – he couldn't let Denethor see him cry.  
  
"You may go", said his father, but as the boy turned and opened the door, a rough hand on his shoulder pulled him round and held him hard against the door, whilst another hand held a knife to his throat.  
  
Faramir was terrified, his eyes wide with fear – had his father gone mad?  
  
**_TBC_**


	4. The Wizard's Pupil 2

**_All the usual disclaimers - wonderful characters are merely borrowed._**

****

**REASONS – Chapter 3, The Wizard's Pupil (2) **

"What good are your books now?" hissed the Steward, but as he became aware of the sheer terror on his son's face, he lowered the knife. "I hope I've made my point." he said.  
  
Before Faramir could answer, the door was pushed open and the child, who now felt dizzy and had started to shake, was knocked to the floor. Strong arms lifted him up, and Boromir's face registered concern as he noticed that his brother's face was the colour of parchment.  
  
"Were you never taught to knock Boromir," asked Denethor. Boromir looked from his father to his brother, knowing that something had transpired between them. They were looking at each other, both with a markedly strange expression – Denethor looked somewhat nervous, which Boromir had never witnessed before, whilst Faramir was staring at his father with a look of total disbelief and bewilderment, and he was still trembling.  
  
Denethor sighed. "Go now," he said to Faramir. "Do whatever you must for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow you will spend using a sword – self-defence is your main priority."  
  
Before the child left the room, father and son caught each other's gaze, and Boromir detected both Faramir's look of accusation, and Denethor's of self-doubt, but the oldest son of the Steward was unaware that had he entered the room just seconds earlier, his beloved little brother would be dead, for the momentum of the door opening would have propelled him into the knife poised at his throat.  
  
"Father....."  
  
Denethor waved his hand dismissively. "Not now Boromir," he said. "Not now."  
  
Boromir paused, unsure whether to confront his father about Faramir's obvious distress, but he decided against it, and bowed to the Steward before going in search of his brother.  
  
Denethor was shaken. He'd only wanted to scare Faramir into recognizing the importance of battle awareness and the need to deal with the unexpected. He was convinced that the boy didn't realise the dangers he would face. Well, maybe he'd succeeded, but at what cost? He'd never been able to reach Faramir, and he accepted that this was more his fault than the boy's, for he had refused to accept his son for what he was. When he saw him, he would try and explain his actions – but he wouldn't apologise for them, for his motives were true – he didn't want his son to be murdered and mutilated by orcs, - or worse, for these abominations of life ate the flesh of man. That his good intentions could have caused such tragic consequences had unnerved the Steward, but he remained convinced that he had acted in the best interest of his child.  
  
When Boromir finally found his brother, he was sitting against a wall on the 6th level, his knees hunched, and his hands clasped about them.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Boromir asked.  
  
Faramir shook his head. He wanted to forget the incident, not relive it.  
  
"Do you know why you and father clash so much?" asked the older boy.  
  
Faramir shook his head.  
  
"Because you're so alike."  
  
This made no sense to the youngster. If he and his father were alike, surely they would be closer. No, it was because they were so unlike that there were problems.  
  
"Father used to read books and study a lot when he was your age," Boromir continued. "Mithrandir told me."  
  
From comparative disinterest, Faramir became eagerly attentive at the mention of the wizard.  
  
"Grandfather didn't approve," said Boromir, and added, "But don't let Father know I told you," and he ruffled his brother's hair affectionately.  
  
"Did Grandfather....." began Faramir.  
  
"What? Did Grandfather what?"  
  
"It doesn't matter," said Faramir quietly. He wanted to tell his brother what had happened, but knew it would cause problems between the Steward and Boromir, and if that happened, Denethor would most likely make life even worse for his youngest.  
  
If working hard at his archery and swordplay had inspired a better relationship with his father, Faramir would have minded less the loss of his lessons with Gandalf, but the incident in the study hung ominously between them. Denethor knew that Faramir did not have the heart of a warrior, so stubbornly refused to acknowledge his improvement in all aspects of warfare, and Faramir remained a lonely little figure, as he witnessed the steadily growing relationship between his father and his brother.

_**Six months later**_.

"Did you see Father? I beat Margil, and he's two years older than me."  
  
Faramir's face was flushed with pride and excitement as he approached his father following his victory in a duel with an older boy. It was a tournament for students to demonstrate their prowess, and Faramir had already walked away with the prize for archery.  
  
"Very good", said Denethor, "but you need to pay more attention to your footwork. A more able opponent would have unbalanced and disarmed you."  
  
Faramir's eyes darkened, and he glowered as he threw his sword down at Denethor's feet and walked away.  
  
"Faramir!" The Steward called to his son angrily, but Faramir refused to respond.  
  
Boromir was unable to remain silent. "Could you not have praised him just for once?!" he exclaimed. "He is so anxious to please you."  
  
Denethor was angry with himself. He had only wanted to help his son improve even further, but again, he had failed to handle the situation correctly. Well, it had gone on long enough – this time, he would make amends, and with this in mind, he followed his youngest.

Faramir wasn't given to petulance often. On many occasions his father's words had reduced him to tears, but this time he just felt frustration and anger. He kicked at the ground, and hammered on the stone wall in the courtyard with his fist.  
  
"I can't imagine that will make you feel better," said a voice behind him.  
  
"Mithrandir!" Faramir was overjoyed to see his friend and mentor. Gandalf looked at him with affection – the boy had grown, and although there wasn't an ounce of fat to be seen, he looked strong and healthy.  
  
"You've come a long way with the sword," he said, and Faramir's face lit up.  
  
"You saw me?"  
  
"I did," Gandalf replied, "and I was very proud of you."  
  
At that, Faramir threw himself at the wizard, and hugged him tightly.  
  
"Mithrandir," he said, "I wish you were my father".  
  
In the shadows Denethor listened, and he felt an instant loathing for Gandalf. He had turned Faramir against him, and made him a wizard's pupil.  
  
He walked silently away, Faramir's words both hurting and angering him.

He never attempted to heal the rift with his youngest son again.


	5. Brotherly Love

**

* * *

REASONS - Chapter 5 - Brotherly Love. _(In which Boromir kicks ass........)_**  
  
"He's the best baby ever," said Boromir, as he gazed in awe at his new brother. Finduilas laughed and hugged her eldest tightly.  
  
"Not quite," she said, "but equal best!"  
  
Faramir, aged two hours, watched the scene with huge deep blue eyes that already seemed to know far too much, and though doubtless the result of his first feed, he "smiled", much to Boromir's delight.  
  
"He likes me, Mama!"  
  
"Of course he does, my darling," replied his doting mother. "How could he not?"  
  
"He is the best baby ever," said Boromir, "and I will be the best big brother ever."  
  
Boromir was true to his word, and when their precious mother died five years later, he hid his own grief whilst he comforted his little brother, although even at such a tender age, Faramir was astute.  
  
"I won't be upset if you cry too," he sobbed, as Boromir held him, and the two of them clung to each other and wept, as Denethor watched unseen, too grief-stricken himself to comfort his children.  
  
Boromir missed his mother so much, there was always a physical pain in his heart that only eased when he was with Faramir, for he had appointed himself his brother's friend and protector, and he concentrated all his thoughts and energy into trying to ensure that the child was content and well.  
  
It was a responsibility that should not have fallen to the ten-year- old, and he tried not only to satisfy his young brother's emotional needs but Denethor's also, as the Steward began to focus more and more attention on his eldest, grooming him for army life and the future Stewardship. For Faramir he had little time – as a five-year-old the child was too young for the only things that Denethor understood, and by the time he was older any bond that might have existed had been broken. Occasionally, due to a pang of conscience, or a brief revival of fatherly affection, Denethor would attempt to interact with his youngest son, but Faramir was shy, and even nervous of the stern man who towered over him like a giant, and he would seek Boromir's hand, whilst studying his father through those same discerning eyes which had always, for some reason, unsettled Denethor.  
  
As Boromir grew older, so his father's needs became greater. Denethor was obsessed with his son and heir, and Boromir unwittingly fuelled that obsession by striving to be everything his father wanted, whereas Faramir, who had his mother's gentle disposition, wanted only to learn, and had no interest in wars and battles, lest they were in a history book.  
  
For Boromir's 16th birthday, his father planned a hunting trip for just the two of them. Denethor was like a child, anticipating the time they would spend together, not just as father and son, but as friends. Unfortunately, on the eve of the trip, Faramir fell ill with influenza, and Boromir refused to leave him.  
  
"He will be all right with Ioreth!" Denethor's disappointment turned to selfish pique, but Boromir bravely defied him.  
  
"Father, how can we leave him when he is so ill and needs us?"  
  
And when Faramir's illness did indeed take a turn for the worse, Denethor did not become the caring father, but resented it even more that Boromir's concern and attention was for his brother, and when Finduilas' brother Imrahil offered to take Faramir to Dol Amroth, it did not go unnoticed by those more discerning, that the Steward's enthusiasm was as much for Faramir's absence as it was for his convalescence. Denethor believed that without Faramir to distract him, Boromir's attention would be for his father alone, but in the event, it did not turn out as the Steward hoped, for Boromir missed his little brother greatly. After six years, it was difficult to abandon, even temporarily, the mantle of responsibility he had assumed, and which was both fraternal and paternal, for it did not escape his notice that Denethor reserved any fatherly characteristics for his firstborn.  
  
Faramir's resilience to his father's neglect amazed Boromir. For one so young, he was remarkably philosophical, and would frequently shrug off his disappointments with the words, "It'll be different when I'm bigger," and he would happily continue reading a book, or painting a picture, whilst his father would take Boromir on a hunting or fishing trip, or to visit an army post. On one occasion as Denethor and Boromir were about to leave, Faramir decided he was bored with staying home alone.  
  
"Can I come?" he asked eagerly.  
  
Boromir's face registered a smile, and he looked at the Steward.  
  
"Let him, Father."  
  
"You're too young Faramir," said Denethor abruptly, and Faramir's face fell. As he watched his father and brother ride out of Minas Tirith, a sadness swept over him, and he realised that it was nothing to do with his age or size, for Boromir had been taken on trips since he was younger than Faramir's 13 years. For the first time in his life, which had until then known only the innocence of childlike love and trust, Faramir felt second best.  
  
The fact that Faramir seemed the total opposite to his precious firstborn, only seemed to aggravate Denethor more, and he perceived differences as weaknesses.  
  
Faramir, though not a sickly child, was more prone to infection, whereas Boromir was robust and hale.  
  
Faramir's frame was slighter, and next to his brother, he appeared to Denethor to be fragile.  
  
Whereas Boromir was enthralled by tales of battles, and looked forward to experiencing them first-hand, Faramir cared not for the spilling of blood whether in war or the hunt. His mind was set on learning whatever, whenever, and wherever he could. If only Denethor had been less critical, he would have realised that there was so much more to his son than a kind and gentle heart. He possessed a shrewdness that would prove invaluable to any soldier, combined with a quick and logical brain which could adapt to any situation instantly, but Denethor had no such perception of his youngest child, and Faramir was unwittingly embroiled in a fight he could not win. As his relationship with Boromir grew stronger, his father grew more and more resentful, not realising that by his own actions did he draw the brothers even closer, if that was in fact possible, for Boromir constantly tried to make amends for the lack of parental affection in his brother's life, and this in turn, hardened the Steward's heart further.  
  
Watching Denethor play with one of the hounds on a rare break from civic duty, Boromir was unable to remain silent when the Steward, noticing his son's unfavourable stare, asked him what was wrong.  
  
"Well Father," Boromir replied. "I was wondering if Faramir should take to fetching sticks, you might treat him with similar affection."  
  
It was a long time since anyone had spoken thus to Denethor, but Boromir was unable to hold his thoughts in check any longer. His father was immediately defensive, his sub-conscious refusing to acknowledge Boromir's statement as justified.  
  
"You do that child no favours," he said. "You encourage no will to stand on his own feet. To whom will he run when you are not here?"  
  
"Whom indeed, Father?" replied Boromir, "Whom indeed?"  
  
So angry was he that he walked away, leaving Denethor not questioning his own conscience, but once more seething with jealousy over Boromir's devotion to his brother.  
  
As they grew to manhood, Denethor expected the brothers to be less dependant on each other, and which indeed they were, but although their lives frequently trod different paths, theirs was a love that would withstand separation and strengthen because of it. When reunited their delight at being together again obliterated everything else, including the presence of their father.  
  
On one such occasion Boromir returned to Minas Tirith to find Faramir in the Houses of Healing, having sustained wounds in a skirmish with orcs which had resulted in the deaths of several Rangers, the attack being sudden and totally unexpected.  
  
Faramir's mood was low, for as Captain he felt responsible, and the loss of men who were not just soldiers, but friends, weighed heavily upon him.  
  
"You cannot let this trouble you," said Boromir. "Grieve, but do not let unjustified guilt burden your heart. Be thankful that you were spared."  
  
"Indeed," came a voice from behind him. "For has not Captain Faramir returned safely, though more than a quarter of his men were lost."  
  
Boromir looked at his father in horror, whilst Faramir showed no reaction, for he now expected nothing less.  
  
"What are you saying?" asked Boromir, still shocked by his father's statement.  
  
Denethor's expression was cold.  
  
"My understanding is that Rangers were left to die by their comrades, who fled."  
  
"That is not true!" Unwell as he felt, Faramir was stirred to react to his father's accusation. "We withdrew yes, and men were lost, but we did not flee in the manner you suggest."  
  
The young Ranger looked directly at his father, as he added in a low voice, "You would have been happier with a massacre." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"I would have been happier with a display of leadership that may not have been successful, but would have been honourable," Denethor replied.  
  
At this, Boromir looked briefly at his brother and shook his head, before walking outside, not trusting himself at that moment to speak. He was almost immediately joined by his father.  
  
"You see now," said the Steward. "It is as I ever said – Faramir is weak. He has neither the stomach nor the heart for battle."  
  
"He has more heart than you or I could ever hope to match," Boromir replied angrily, "but as always you seek to demean him."  
  
He moved closer to his father, their faces almost touching, and he nodded slowly, realisation dawning.  
  
"Is that your plan Father – to diminish him in my eyes? To convince me that my brother has no worth? Do you feel that by doing so, my love will be for you alone? If so, you are sadly in error, for although I love you dearly, Faramir is the most precious person in my life....I vowed to our mother than I would take care of him, and I will do so until I die – as I have these past twenty years. I love you Father, but right now, I like you not, and I may never forgive you for what you have just done – for the implication that your son – my brother – is a coward, and for all but wishing him dead." He paused before adding emphatically, "I have been silent for too long."  
  
Denethor was in shock as Boromir walked away in disgust, and he realised he had gone too far, and also that he had underestimated the strength of the bond that existed between his children.  
  
He didn't know how he was going to regain the respect and friendship of his eldest son. All he knew was that it was all Faramir's fault. 


End file.
